


Come into My Castle

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10081967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: The first rule of show business? Expect the unexpected.Jaime hosts the Rainbow Awards. Brienne gets more than she bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago for JB Week and figured, hey, why not finish it for **Meet Cute March**? It then proceeded to drag me through all seven hells until I got fed up and decided to just post the stupid thing. I'm still not entirely pleased, but hopefully somebody has fun with it. 
> 
> Not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Jaime took his time sauntering downstage, teasing tension from the nebulous, shadowy shapes obscured by the glare of the spotlight. They’d remembered the podium this time—no one wanted to see a host of the Rainbow Awards open an envelope with his teeth—but the producers refused to tell him the winner in advance thanks to the lead singer of R’hllor, who had nearly caused a riot last year spilling to the press before the show (and the wrong name at that).

Flashing a smile to cover a burst of nerves, Jaime tugged the card free with a flourish, turning in the same motion to lean against the polished podium. The words took a moment to swim into focus. He played it up, holding the paper aloft as if to test it against the glaring stage lights.

“Ah,” he mused, drawing the card closer to squint at it. “You don’t suppose Melisandre got to this one, do you?”

Jon Snow’s snort was audible over the scattered laughter. The B camera swung out, scanning the black-shrouded crowd for the young director.

Finally the typography on the plain, white notecard relented, spilling its secrets. His pulse leapt at the name, blood buzzing like a fly flirting with the spotlight. He spun to face the crowd, going twice around with a practiced flair that was sure to wind up looped on his Ravenbook feed before midnight.

“And as my daughter could have told you ten months ago,” he announced wryly, “the Rainbow Award for Best Female Vocals in an Original Song goes to Brienne Tarth for ‘Come into My Castle.’”

Applause thundered beyond the hazy curtain of light. He wondered how much of it was for the cameras. For all that anyone past puberty was sick of the sound of her—Jaime could quote that bloody movie in his sleep, intonation and all—he couldn’t deny that the breakout star deserved the win.

Camera B swept the audience, drinking in the applause, as Camera A searched for Brienne in the sudden melee. Jaime kept a knowing smile fixed in place, well aware that Camera C greedily watched him fish the gaudy, multicolored statue from the podium and adjust his lapel mike for the banter to come. His nerves hummed an off-key tune as the applause swelled and crested, finally fading to a soft patter. At last a shape lumbered onstage, emerging into the spotlight like Visenya striding from a cloud of dragon smoke. Jaime thanked the Seven that it was _her_ face plastered across every screen in Westeros. Tommen would burst into tears if he’d heard the crude comments dancing across his father’s tongue.

Brienne Tarth was more _dragon_ than _dragon charmer._  Her features weren’t delicate, or Botoxed, or any of the things Jaime might’ve imagined had he cared to try, but broad and freckled and painfully plain beneath layers of makeup. He supposed it hardly mattered when every child from Hardhome to Qarth knew her as a pretty, animated teen, but Baelish’s tabloids were sure to be scathing, no matter how she’d transformed children’s cinema with her heroine’s steely determination.

It had clearly taken effort to wrest her from the solitude of a sound studio. Her dress was plain and badly tailored, puckering at the collar from the loose fabric that bunched around her breasts. Wisps of crimped, frizzy hair snuck out of her updo, which looked as if her stylist had pinned it up as a last resort. Her legs ate through the stage in half a dozen massive strides, a crumpled acceptance speech clutched in thick fingers. Coming to an abrupt halt beside the podium, she reached for the iridescent statue.

Jaime felt a little callous for yanking it away.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He made his regret playful, like he was denying his son a goldfish, knowing full well that his mother had finally relented about the kitten. “I’m afraid you’ll have to earn it.”

Her hand jerked away, fisting in the fabric of her dress. Expressive blue eyes met his, wide with alarm before they narrowed in suspicion.

Did she honestly think he’d throw her to the wolves on live television?

 _Come now, wench,_ he thought, irritated, _this is the Rainbow Awards, not the Citadel Network. Show a little personality._

He donned his most charming smile. “You see, my kids are watching at their mother’s—” She craned her neck as he waved to the camera behind her, hoping Cersei hadn’t deigned to join them on the couch. “—and quite frankly they’d disown me if I didn’t give them a show. _They’re big fans,”_ he stage whispered, hoping that would ease her glowering suspicion. Surely she knew what an understatement that was.

Titters skittered through the audience, the faint amusement of a thousand people who would rather be elsewhere. Brienne stiffened at the sound. He grit his teeth and grinned. He was ready to catch hell from the producers, but shuddered to think what Myrce would do if he drove her idol to violence on national TV. The woman looked more mulish than a child star facing rehab.

 _The things I do for love,_ he thought, sauntering closer.

“How does that one go again?” He hummed a few bars, faintly off-key. Her eyes watched his lips as if his smile were a sneer.

The orchestra soon caught on, and the familiar strains of ‘Come into My Castle’ rose from the pit. Her eyes snapped to his, wide and entreating. Jaime found himself blinking at the brilliant blue, sparkling in the lights of the stage. Finally she jerked a nod.

 _She’s not angry,_ he realized suddenly, _she’s terrified._ A dark flush crawled up the uneven neckline of her dress, swallowing her skin freckle by freckle, which gave her the unfortunate appearance of a mottled peach. He felt a strange urge to step in front of her, shielding her from the judgment of the crowd.

The first cue landed. Tearing his eyes from her chest, Jaime began on instinct. _“Come into my castle,”_ he serenaded Westeros in a falsetto that only his children had heard, _“I’ll sing you a pretty song.”_

The audience laughed. He smiled good-naturedly, waving as if he’d flubbed the parts on purpose. Brienne, if anything, looked even more uncomfortable, retreating a step from the sniggering crowd. He caught her eyes, imploring her to play along. For an endless note the music held its breath, teetering on the cusp of her cue.

She leaned forward, singing into the mike. _“Tales of great adventure, as vast as the day is long.”_ Far from faking a baritone, her first words came out squeaky and sharp. But she plowed on, smoothing her voice into a sweet alto that soothed his lingering nerves.

Jaime dropped the falsetto for his film voice, which was passable despite his limited range. _“Come into my castle, and soon we’ll sail away.”_ When she broke in for the duet, he suddenly wished he’d taken those half-assed singing lessons a little more seriously.

_“You are mine and I am yours in riches, rags, or hay.”_

Dancing lightly around her, he rounded the podium, eyes locked on hers as he cheated towards the audience and leaned onto his elbow, propping his chin in his hand. Winking, he popped a foot into the air. Her face blazed so brightly that even the spotlights didn’t have a prayer of washing her out, but she stood her ground as the band led them through the bridge and onto the chorus, abruptly fading to nothing before another verse could bleed into any more airtime.

The audience gave the proverbial crickets no say before erupting into thunderous applause. He thought it might even be genuine.

“Well,” Jaime said when the applause petered out, “I’d say you’ve earned this.” He made as if to hand her the award, then pulled it away again, frowning up at the screen that he knew read: _Brienne Tarth, Best Female Vocals in an Original Song._

“Hold on,” he said, “they forgot one of the nominees.” Stuffing the statue into the crook of his arm, Jaime slipped into a fighter’s stance, left elbow anchored on the podium. He offered her his hand. “Best two out of three?”

The audience chuckled, as predictable as a laugh track.

She snorted loudly, then blushed, capturing her bottom lip between broad buckteeth. By the time she’d finished studying her shoes, she was wearing significantly less lipstick.

He leaned into her, relishing the flaring heat as she blushed impossibly brighter. “Alright, no face-off. What say we share?”

“No,” she said bluntly, clearly fed up with his sport. She yanked the statue free of his grip and the crowd roared laughter.

Jaime pantomimed a wounded heart. “I’d like to thank Tommen and Myrcella for making me do that,” he told the assembled actors, directors, billionaires, and seat-fillers, “and Joff for pretending not to know me at school tomorrow.”

Brienne glowered at him before leaning forward to mumble into the microphone, “Thank you, Goodwin and Catelyn.” She cleared her throat, glancing down at the sweaty paper crumpled in her fist. “Thank you to my costars, and the production team, and my assistant, Pod. And my dad. I love you.”

She ducked her head and scrambled away. Jaime watched her vanish behind the impersonal wall of the spotlight, feeling oddly bereft. The music swelled, prompting him to move on with the show. He turned and chased Brienne downstage, overtaking her as she reached the stairs to pull her into a showy, congratulatory hug. Her warm breath stuttered across his temple, ruffling his hair.

_Seven hells, she’s tall. Is she wearing heels?_

“Thank you,” he murmured. It was the first sincere thing he’d said all night. “That was a shit thing to do to you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, stiffer than her new statue. He released her, arms skimming curves he hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly her hardness melted away. “But it was sweet,” she said, smiling awkwardly. “Embarrassing yourself for your kids.”

He managed not to point out that, of the two of them, he wasn’t the one turning roughly the color of weirwood sap. Instead he covered his lapel mike, sending a muffled _thud_ across the auditorium.

“I’ll thank you for it properly if you meet me after the show. Backstage? Say, midnight?”

That mistrustful gleam sparked to life in her eyes. “I’m not big on after parties,” she hedged, edging toward the stairs.

The crowd was beginning to murmur. As the upbeat instrumentals faded, the orchestra moved into the opening strains of something that sounded suspiciously like ‘The Rains of Castamere’.

“Good.” Jaime took a step back to appease the bloody producers. Likely he was about ten seconds from being blacklisted from the Rainbow Awards. Likely he didn’t care. “Our traditional affair is rather boring. My brother picks up the kids from my ex’s and we make pancakes in our pj’s.” He glanced down at his tux, then raked his eyes across her dress, which really could fit better, given that she could probably afford to keep a dozen stylists on retainer. “Or formal wear, as the case may be.”

“You—” She looked flabbergasted. The spotlight landed on them, trying to hasten her offstage, but she was too busy staring at him to notice. “You want me to have pancakes with your family?”

 _Come into my castle._ Even in his head, it didn’t sound as ironic as it should.

“Are you kidding?” He grinned, taking another step backwards. “If I bring home Princess Dragonknight, I’ll be the uncontested favorite parent for life. And anyway—” His hand fell from his mike. When his voice rebounded back to him, his intent was so clear that it could’ve been scripted for a chemistry test. “—we need to discuss custody rights for that trophy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
